


Game of Hearts and Souls

by silverchitauri



Category: Spider-Man - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Anxiety, Asthma, BAMF Peter Parker, Cussing, Dark Peter Parker, Dead May Parker (Spider-Man), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fire, Freeform, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Guilt, Homeless Peter Parker, Human Experimentation, Hurt Peter Parker, Hurt/Comfort, Hydra, Hydra Peter Parker, Hypothermia, Kidnapping, Kinda, Loneliness, Not Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie) Compliant, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Parent Tony Stark, Peter Parker Acts Like a Spider, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Peter Parker Whump, Peter Parker is a Good Bro, Peter Parker is a Mess, Peter Parker-centric, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Post-Spider-Man: Homecoming, Precious Peter Parker, Protective Peter Parker, Sad Peter Parker, Sleep Deprivation, Starvation, Survivor Guilt, Tags May Change, The Raft Prison (Marvel), Tony Stark Feels, brain washing, evil thaddeus ross, i’m a terrible person, sleeping gas
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-01
Updated: 2019-05-02
Packaged: 2019-11-04 15:23:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17900681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silverchitauri/pseuds/silverchitauri
Summary: Eight months ago, Peter Parker died in a massive fire that killed his aunt. His friends mourned, and began trying to move on with their lives.Peter Parker can’t move on. He has never been this cold or hungry.For eight months, he’s been scraping out a living on the streets, trying to be the Friendly Neighborhood Spider-Man neighborhood Spiderman that everyone loves. But how can he be the Friendly Neighborhood Spiderman when everything that made him Peter Parker is gone, and the only thing he’s eaten this week was a stale bagel.But not everyone loves Spider-Man.And those that don’t want him dead.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Wish that I could cry  
> Fall upon my knees  
> Find a way to lie  
> About a home I'll never see  
> It may sound absurd, but don't be naive  
> Even heroes have the right to bleed  
> I may be disturbed, but won't you concede  
> Even heroes have the right to dream  
> And it's not easy to be me
> 
>  
> 
> Gonna try to write a long fic here. Not sure how long, but hope you enjoy!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Check the news, Tony.

“FRIDAY?”

“Yes, boss?”

”Play my music, will you?”

"Sure thing. What music would you like me to play?”

”Let’s see...” Tony spun in his chair. His lab was covered in random parts, products of a 36 hour day working. ”I’m going for an angsty, moody teenage vibe. What do you recommend?”

”If you were asking my opinion,” replied the female AI, “You don’t have to play any songs to get that vibe. You are the textbook example of it.”

“Very funny, FRI.”

”My pleasure, sir. Playing AC/DC.”

Tony relaxed into the waves of electric guitar that rolled across the room.

He’d been getting into a lot of new stuff over the past year: new bands, new projects, and lots and lots of tinkering. His new favorite was nanotech.

It had been a lonely year. As much as he hated to admit it, Steve was his friend, and the Tower was empty without him and the others.

Pepper was only just coming slowly back into his life, even after he proposed.

Rhodey was busy doing government stuff.

Vision was...Vision (in other words, not great company).

He didn’t really know T’Challa, and besides, the man had a nation to run.

Man, he missed Bruce.

Plus, his kid had school to deal with, so he wasn’t around much.

Wait, _the_ kid. Did he actually say that? Definitely not his kid.

As if reading his mind, FRIDAY piped up again. “Boss, you have a new message from Peter.”

”Hmm. Okay.” He heaved himself up from his chair and crossed the room to the bar. If he was going to survive the night, he was going to need a drink. “What’s Underoos got to say?”

”His message reads, _Decathlon practice going to run late again tomorrow. Competition coming up. Can’t stop by tomorrow afternoon. *sad emoji*._ Shall I send a reply?”

Tony felt a traitorous grin begin to spread its way across his cheeks, and he stifled it with some difficulty. “Yeah, sure.”

”What would you like me to say?”

Tony debated for a moment. ”Tell him to sleep well.”

”Will do.”

Man, he was getting soft. He really loved the kid. Yeah, there were the tough love moments, but they were all for the kid’s benefit. He wanted to be a better mentor than his own dad had been. He would show Howard Stark that he was a thousand times the better man.

The TV blared to life right on schedule. He had programmed it to show him the nightly news.

The anchor, Christine Everhart, looked as plastic as the night he had her over.

“Welcome back to WHIH. My name is Christine Everhart here with your evening news update. a topic that has dominated the headlines for the past few years: the rebuilding of Sokovia. I’m joined by WHIH’s political correspondent, Will Adams. Hi, Will.”

“Hey, Christine. It’s great to be back.”

 _Bullshit,_  Tony thought. Will Adams looked exhausted and just about the most unenthusiastic anchor he’d ever seen.

The anchor continued. “An outpouring of support for the victims of the Novi Grad catastrophe two years ago has come from all across the world. Charities have sprung up around the globe, sending medical aid to the citizens of this Eastern European nation. Among the foundations, the biggest supporters are the Wakanda Sokovia Support Fund, or WSSF, nonprofit charity Change For Sokovia in New Zealand, and We’re on the Money, started by Tony Stark himself.”

Tony smirked. That had been one of the little projects he had started.

”Will, that name has Tony Stark written all over it. But the charity has been extremely fruitful in it’s efforts. It’s provided 25% of the financial means to rebuild Sokovia’s infrastructure.”

Tony rolled his eyes. They could slam the name all they wanted to. They couldn’t ignore the fact that he was doing actual good in the world for once. He hoped that it might, thought he knew it wouldn’t, help cover up what Stark Industries was originally known for.

“With the Sokovia Accords in place, the amount of disasters that go unaddressed has risen to an all time high. Our heroes who have done us so well in the past are failing us, and many people are left asking, ‘Where are the Avengers?’”

Tony hated listening to this sort of thing. “FRIDAY?”

”Yes, boss?”

”Change the channel to MSNBC.”

”On it.”

“—a house fire broke out in an apartment complex in Queens this evening. Officials are on the site. Reporter Tracey Craw is on the site of the blaze.”

Tony froze.

“Tracey, what can you tell us?”

His heart thudded.

What he was seeing couldn’t be real.

“Well, Zach, investigators aren’t sure yet, but it looks like the cause of the fire was a stove that was left on. Neighbors called the police when they smelled something burning, but by the time authorities got here, the entire building was up in flames.”

Tony wasn’t listening anymore.

He couldn’t hear them.

It wasn’t real because that was _his kid’s house._

_1 in 10, and Peter was that 10%._

“Boss.” FRIDAY broke into his thoughts, confirming his fears. “The fire appears to be stemming from Peter’s apartment.”

”I gotta go,” Tony muttered, half to himself. He fumbled his way from the couch to the monitor across the room.

“It’s against the Accords,” FRIDAY reminded him as if she could see the idea blooming in his mind.

“Screw the Accords,” Tony snarled viciously, meaning every word. He was starting to get lightheaded with panic. “I need to—I-I need to go and—“

He broke off gasping for air.

No. This wasn’t the time to break down. Peter needed him.

He pounded a code into the system.

 “Boss! Don’t do this.”

He hit the buttons. “FRIDAY, don’t you dare lock me out!”

 **ACCESS DENIED** flashed across the screen. Tony typed in another code and pressed his handprint onto the screen.

The screen beeped rapidly as it scanned his palm. His pulse pounded just as fast, rising and rising to possibly dangerous levels—

_System override. Access granted._

He let out a breath he hadn’t even known he was holding. He scrambled from the display to the center of the room where a thin crack in the floor traced a circle.

Pressing both feet firmly to the floor, he waited.

Up from the floor rose thick layers of metal plating. Theu swarmed his legs and coated his torso. An arc reactor rose from the floor to his chest, where the metal formed around it, encasing him until he was completely surrounded, protected by his suit.

His helmet display flickered to life and FRIDAY’s voice sounded through the sound system. 

“—Boss? We need to wait.. Secretary Ross already has you monitored closely and any slip up of the Accords could get you in serious trouble—Boss? Boss!”

But Tony was already gone.


	2. Tears Down the Gutter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eight months later, here’s where we find Tony
> 
> Peter remembers the fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should be sorry for writing this chapter, but I’m not.

Eight Months Later

“ _Last night, an apartment complex in Queens caught fire. Five people were killed in the flames, among them four adults and one minor. The details released by authorities say that the blaze appeared to have originated from the apartment of May Parker and her nephew, a minor, 15 years old._

_First responders arrived at the scene, but it was too late. The blaze, devastating to start with, had spread to numerous other buildings, injuring dozens. Many victims suffered severe burns and have had to be hospitilized, some in critical condition._

_Iron Man was spotted at the scene of the fire, increasing public panic about the fire. Was the government involved? How did an Avenger know to be on the scene?”_

The taped report froze as it reached the end, and Tony gazed blankly at the screen.

FRIDAY waited quietly for a few minutes before saying gently, “The newscast is over, boss.”

“Replay.” He rubbed the permenant worry lines above his brow.

”Boss, I’m not sure this is healthy for you—“ the AI argued, but Tony cut her off.

”Damnit, FRIDAY! Replay.”

”Of course, boss.”

_“Last night, an apartment complex in Queens caught fire. Five people were killed in the flames, among them four adults and one minor—“_

The anchor cut off midsentence, expression ridiculous as his mouth started to form the next word, lips curling, face stretched.

“FRIDAY...” Tony said. “I told you—“

A quiet voice spoke up behind him. ”I turned it off.”

Slowly, Tony swiveled around in his chair, coming face to face with Pepper. 

She looked as beautiful as ever: hair pinned up in an elegant swirl, royal blue dress hugging her curves, complemented by the silver bangles from their 3 month anniversary.

But her eyes were tired and sad, small smile not quite reaching the corners of eyes, shoulder slumping ever so slightly.

”She’s right,” Pepper continued. “You can’t keep doing this yourself.”

”Actually,” Tony corrected, keeping his voice light and emotionless, “I _can_  do whatever I want. I am an adult, aren’t I? Or are we going with moral compass obligations. ‘Cause that sounds more like Cap, if you ask me—“

But Pepper could see right through his charade. ”Tony,” she said. “It’s okay to grieve. Show a little weakness. You lost a kid—“ 

”He wasn’t my kid.”

Pepper gave him a knowing look. “We both know that’s a lie, Tony.”

Tony felt something inside him crack, like spilling salt over an open wound. A hole where a heart used to be. He leaned into Pepper, and she wrapped her arms around his head.

”I couldn’t save him,” Tony choked, voice rough with unshed tears. He swallowed them down, and they burned the back of his throat. “It’s my fault.”

”No, Tony, it’s not.” He could hear the tremble in her voice.

”I tried to get there. I almost blew out the repulsors. If I’d had a more powerful energy source—maybe the cold weather got to it, the heating system went down for a second—if I had installed the counter-balance system the kid tried to get me to put in, I could’ve—“

”Tony.”

He stopped, breathing shaky. Pepper drew back and looked him dead in the eyes. Her eyes were shining with tears, but her voice held steady when she said, “You can’t keep doing this to yourself. Things like that happen. They’re accidents, and there’s nothing we can do about it. No repulsors or new systems could have stopped the fire. We both know that.”

He took in a deep sobbing breath and blew it out in a shaky laugh. It hurt to laugh. “I couldn’t fix it, Pepper.”

”I know, Tony.”

They sat there in silence together, but both their minds were far away.

 

* * *

 

Peter Parker lived in a duffel bag.

It sounded so cliché, but it was the truth. Everything that he had, everything that mattered to him could be compressed in a single Midtown Decathlon drawstring bag.

1 change of socks,

1 pair of yellow wool gloves,

1 beanie for when it got cold,

1 thin all purpose blanket that badly needed washing,

1 toothbrush from the dollar store,

1 travel tube of toothpaste folded up and squeezed thin for maximum use,

1 dead phone,

1 worn copy of _To Kill A Mockingbird,_

and 1 water bottle.

The socks, gloves, blanket, and beanie had been donations from kind people walking by. The toothbrush had been in exchange for the change someone dropped at his feet. Same with the toothpaste.

The book and the water bottle were already in the duffel from decathlon practice. They had been the only things he had with him his world collapsed

 

Eight months earlier

It was after school, and he had just punched in a message to Mr. Stark. Standing in the hallway to his apartment, he watched as his phone pinged again.

_Sleep well._

Peter grinned, then shut off his phone and pushed open the door to his apartment.

”May?” he yelled. “I’m home.” 

No response. Maybe she wasn’t home yet.

He plodded to his room. He hurled his bag on the ground and fell back onto his bed, suddenly exhausted.  _Whew._ What a day.

***

Peter jolted upright at the sound of his window squeaking. He couldn’t even remember falling asleep.

But that didn’t matter now. His spidey sense screamed as the window slid open.

_What the...?_

He reached for his web shooters lying on the side table.

_CRASH!!!_

Someone tumbled into his bedroom. This someone was huge, muscular, dressed in black. A ski mask covered their face.

Peter fumbled the shooters, and before he could grab them off the floor, the person lunged.

At Peter.

In shock, he was knocked to the floor, his head hitting the wall hard. The person pinned him down, and grabbed his head in their hands.

 _WHAM!_  

His head dented the wall.

Peter saw stars.

Dazed with pain, he tried to fight back, but for some reason, his limbs felt heavy.

He was so, so tired.

But he clawed and kicked and punched until he managed to land a hit. The person reeled back, clutching their ski mask, where red was beginning to bleed through.

Peter, despite his limbs feeling like lead, now had the upper hand. He pulled back a twenty ton leg and kicked the prone figure hard in the stomach. The guy doubled over and went still.

Peter had about ten seconds to feel victorious, before a scream ripped through his sluggish, drugged mind.

Stumbling over to door, he yanked it open—

—and came face to face with a wall of flames.

 _”_ MAY _!_ ” Peter screamed. Smoke billowed into the room, chasing its way down his throat, into his lungs. Another scream reached his ears. Coughing and heaving, he sucked in another mouthful of smoke. _“MAY!”_

No more screams came from the kitchen. All he heard was the roar of flames and the wail of the fire alarm.

_May. Where’s May?_

But he couldn’t go looking for her. The flames were chasing him furthur in, eating at his doorframe. They singed the hairs on his arms, seared the skin on his leg.

He stumbled away, sobbing in breaths and coughing them out. The old question, “If your house was burning and you could only take one thing with you,” came to his mind.

No time, no time.

Grabbing his duffel, he stumbled to the open window, ignoring the burning pain in his leg, gasping for air, _not_  thinking about how he was leaving May, leaving her after everything she’d done for him. 

Then he fell out.

Only by a mother of all miracles did he land in a dumpster and not the concrete.

Cushioned by the rank odor of decay, he heaved and hacked until he felt like his lungs were bleeding.

Then he passed out.

He woke up hours later, cold and alone.

Still shaking off the effects of the sleeping gas.

But he couldn't shake off the fact that someone had broken into his home.

That May was gone.

His home was gone.

His life was gone.

 _Spider-Man_  was gone.

With a sick sense of timing, his memory decided to send a thought ringing through his mind.

Reaching into his pocket. Texting Mr. Stark.

Ping.

_Sleep well._

He was too numb to cry.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, forgot to tell you, but for the next two weeks I’m not going to update as regularly. I’m traveling, but will try to get you the story. PLEASE don’t think I’m quitting. I WILL NEVER ORPHAN THIS WORK. PROMISE. But for the next two weeks I won’t update AS FREQUENTLY.


	3. Vigilance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The hunt begins

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, I’m back. Sorry about that. I’ve been really slammed, and I’m trying to juggle way too many fics (dangit past me).

 

Peter panted as he dashed around the corner of the alley, emerging onto the busy New York sidewalk.

_Wham!_

An old man with an umbrella toppled over with a curse.

”Sorry,” Peter called over his shoulder as the guy shook the umbrella at his retreating back. Several people shot glares at the rowdy kid who dared to knock an old man over and not help him up.

A young woman in high heels bent down to grab his hand and lift him to his feet.

Eight months ago, Peter would’ve that person helping. It was the right thing to do, after all. Old Peter would have asked the man if he was okay, maybe given him his jacket.

New Peter didn’t have a jacket to spare. And as much as he wanted to help, life on the streets had taught him a hard, hard lesson.

Every man for himself.

_Bam!_

A shoulder collided with Peter’s as he shoved past.

Anyway, he didn’t have the time to help the man.

He barely had the time to help himself.

_Bam!_

“What the hell!” someone shouted.

Gah. Stupid crowds. No time for this. No time—

Aha. There it was. The million-dollar jackpot caught Peter’s eye and he swerved, slamming into a few more people.

Said jackpot was actually a dim, grimy alleyway, but to Peter it was heaven.

If he could get to it, he would be out of sight. Maybe there would be a dumpster he could hide in. Another thing the past several months had done was make him a lot more familiar with dumpsters than he’d ever hoped to be.

Ducking around the corner, he sprinted to (yay?) the dumpster at the end of the alley.

Three meters.

Two-and-a-half.

Two— _  
_

_WHAM!_

Peter sprawled to the ground. Before he could scramble back to his feet, a sharp kick to the ribs knocked him down again.

He groaned as the pain sliced through his abdomen.

Rough hands grabbed his shoulders and slammed him onto his stomach. His ribs screamed.

 _Damnit damnit damnit!_ They’d chased him like a dog through Manhattan, then pinned him like terriers hunting a rat.

He felt his backpack ripped from his back, arms bending at a painful angle as the straps snagged on his rumpled coat fabric. He growled as he struggled and kicked out, aiming for everything in reaching distance: shins, groins, guts.

There had been a time when Peter would have held back so he wouldn’t kill them with his superstrength. Now, he wouldn’t, but there was no need to anyways.

A half-eaten burger a week wasn’t nearly enough to keep a super-powered teen going. His muscles had wasted away to almost nothing, and he knew if he tried to climb a wall he would probably fall.

Yeah, life on the street wasn’t exactly a trip to _Four Seasons_. And to make matters worse, these three goons wouldn’t leave him alone today for some sick reason. Why? He didn’t know. He wasn’t exactly overflowing with luxuries at the moment.

Someone’s rough hand shoved its way into his jean pocket. The back left one where he kept his cash.

He kicked out again, but this time, one of the guys grabbed his head and shoved it into the rank cement.

”Where’d you get this money, you little shit?” asked Idiot Number One, and grabbing the meager wad of money Peter owned. “You ain’t too liquid, I’m guessing.”

Peter took a useless swipe at the cash and got a bruising sock to the jaw for his efforts.

”Down, dog,” one sneered, aiming for his ribs again. As Peter curled into a little protective ball of pain, he could barely make out the blurry outline of the assailant: white kid. Huge, with broad shoulders and biceps perfect for punching homeless kids into submission. Sandy blonde hair. Ratty jeans, worn boots that hurt like hell when they met your ribs.

But his most defining feature was the ink winding around his neck, crisscrossing to form the scales of a snake as it seemingly hugged his neck, almost like a noose.

Anyone who’d been on the streets long enough recognized that tattoo, if not the person it belonged to: Ajax. The pit bull of Manhattan streets, with all the bite that came with the bark. The tattoo was his badge. It also acted as a sort of repellant; old men backed away from it, kids fled, and anyone who was stupid enough to confront him payed.

He might’ve been rich, once; Peter didn’t know. All he knew was that Ajax, who had no last name, collected his salary through other people, homeless or not.

The guy pickpocketed and jumped more people than Peter wanted to keep track of, leaving Peter to clean up the mess. It was the least he could do, with his not being Spider-Man anymore.

And Ajax knew that. Peter had almost been caught multiple times.

This was when “almost” turned into “happened”.

Back to the present. The horrible, horrible present, where Peter lay, surrounded on all sides.

Man, he would give anything to be teased by Flash again.

Ajax’s boot came stomping down, and Peter braced for the impact. He flinched violently when the thud! sounded dangerously close to where his head was. As enhanced as Peter was, he was fairly sure that not even he could survive a completely crushed skull.  
Ajax knelt behind Peter’s head, out of his line of vision. The fabric of his pants scraped against the cement. He reeked of cigarettes.

”Nobody cares ‘bout you,” he hissed. “I could get you right now. But I won’t. I’m bein’ nice. Don’t test your luck. Stay outta my way.”

The pressure pinning Peter down didn’t let up until the guys finished rummaging around in his backpack. _To Kill A Mockingbird_ was tossed out of the way, nearly missing a puddle.

 _Don’t_ , Peter found himself thinking desperately. _Not that one_.

But he watched as his little duffel was searched like it was a TSA line, then tossed aside.

The pressure on his arms let up as the person holding him down got up to follow Ajax out. Peter could’ve run. He could’ve knocked the guy out from behind. But he didn’t. He just sat there, frozen.

”You owe me, punk!” Ajax’s voice echoed around the walls of the alley.

Peter lay there like a lump for a few seconds. When his limbs finally unlocked, he pushed himself up and made his way over to his sad little duffel.

His money, naturally, was nowhere to be seen. Gonzo, along with his dead phone.

Shit, not the phone. Even though it never happened, Peter had been holding out some small piece of hope that he could find a charger and call someone, anyone.

He wouldn’t actually call anyone. He couldn’t let that happen. Not again.

At least they hadn’t taken his coat, he thought dully, staring at his ratty jeans and beaten up sneakers. Or much of anything, really. They left all his reusable stuff: toothbrush, toothpaste, water bottle.

But the money was gone. The money that was the only thing keeping him from truly plunging under. That kept him from pick-pocketing.

_The book!_

The book was still on the ground, splayed open and downwards like a drowning person. He picked it up gently, careful not to rip the worn pages, thin from re-reads (he didn’t have a library card, so it was his only book). 

“Kid?”

Peter jerked upwards, eyes darting around the alley. His heart was thudding double-time, like a band song, marching right to an early death from stress. He hadn’t heard anybody coming, and yet there was suddenly a guy next to him, looking at him with a worried expression.

The guy crouched down next to Peter. ”You alright?”

The man, maybe late-twenties, early-thirties, wore dark sunglasses and a suit. He was wearing a suit, of all things, as he stood above a dumpster in an alleyway.  _Weird._

“Y-Yeah,” Peter said, fumbling the book into his bag. The guy didn’t look like he was in the book stealing business. The CIA? Maybe. But he wasn’t giving off any street bully vibes.

Still, Peter wasn’t taking any chances.

 “What do you want?”

”Just checking if you were okay,” the man said. His red-tinted glasses were slightly unnerving, though not taking away from the fact that he was actually quite good looking.

 _I don’t want to die at the hands of Agent Hollywood._  “You saw what happened.”

For some reason, a grin flickered at the edge of the guy’s mouth. “No, I heard yelling, then found you down here. Just checking—“

”I’m fine,” Peter said abruptly. Too abruptly, maybe, because Agent Hollywood frowned a little.

”Kid,” he said again, and Peter flinched. _You don’t get to call me that._  “You have anybody you can call?”

Peter blanched for a second. “I—“

But the man was already pulling out his phone. He held it out to Peter without a word.

Peter took it, then stared blankly at the screen. He hit the power button, almost jumping when a voice blared out of the little phone’s speaker.

” _Welcome.”_

Peter looked at Hollywood. “Uh.”

“She yells at me whenever I don’t do something right. Sorry, it’s kind of confusing.” The guy grinned good-naturedly. “You’ve got to double tap if you want to hit the number.”

Was that _panic_ Peter spotted for a split second? And the phone in his hand didn’t look fancy enough to have an AI, so the voice didn’t really make sense.

All suspicion was overwhelmed, though, by the sudden, aching hole in his chest that a Karen shaped space used to occupy. Man, he missed her. More than he would ever admit.

But staring at the phone, another problem presented itself.

It wasn’t like Peter hadn’t tried contacting people before. Right after the fire, his phone was still functional. He’d called _everyone_ : Ned, Tony, MJ, Happy, Pepper, people.

It didn’t work. Every time it got to the third ringtone or so, the signal fizzled out. Then the fire started to spread, and Peter booked it to the next block.

There was an elderly couple that May sometimes helped with day to day chores. The night was blurry, weirdly blurry, but Peter remembered collapsing on the doormat outside of their apartment.

He barely knew them, but the saddest part was he had nowhere else to go. Mr. Stark wasn’t picking up. He didn’t know what that meant, currently his only option was to stay with the couple, Mr. and Mrs. Polks.

Mrs. Polks ushered him inside, sitting him down in a chair and immediately grabbing the phonebook to make calls to authorities. Mr. Polk, an Eagle Scout for life, got the first aid kit.

Peter only had one or two burns. One wasn’t all that bad. One hurt like a bitch and would probably leave a scar. His main problem was the unfading burning in his lungs from the smoke. It felt like some had stuck a pipe down his throat and burned his very esophagus. Every breath wheezed.

A warm mug of tea was placed in front of him (bless them) but he couldn’t bring himself to drink it. The hot ceramic on his skin felt like burning embers.

That’s when the problem of the hour presented itself.

He was slumped at their dining table, half in a flood of tears, half in utter shock, when the first shot rang out.

His spidey-sense went off like a fire alarm, wailing even as the bullet shattered the apartment window and tore through Mrs. Polks.

The look of surprise on her face was so mild, as if someone had spilled tomato sauce on her table cloth instead of a sniper shooting her in her house.

She hadn’t even fully collapsed when a second bullet nailed Mr. Polks in the chest.

Peter was frozen in sickening horror when his hair stood on end. Following his instinct, he leaped to the ceiling, just in time for a bullet to race past where he’d just been and burrow through the wall.

He barely managed to escape out the back window.

He found himself, for the second time that night, huddled in an alleyway. Only this time, he let himself dissolve into a puddle of tears and hysterics.

The message was clear: _We will go through anyone to get to you._

 

Peter jerked back to the present to find Hollywood staring at him, concerned. Unable to bear it any longer, Peter shoved the phone back at its owner.

Ignoring everything that he wanted to do, he grabbed his duffel, turned on his heel, and walked away from his last chance at connection.

He couldn’t take that chance.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s official, guys. I have no soul. *mwahahaha*  
> No, but really. I’m terrible for enjoying writing this.  
> I hope this answered a few questions (but also left a lot more because I want people to keep reading. sorry)


End file.
